The Round Up . . . Is Over

"George and I have talked a lot over a beer after golf. Please stay calm and tell me what she said."

"Mary said that there was this club that had contests every four years to see how many women each of them could seduce. They'd tricked her into cheating on George but he was such a sweet man and he'd loved her enough to forgive her little fling." Cindy's face was now very sober. I could see that whatever was coming next was going to give her a very bad feeling.

"Honey, it wasn't a little fling," I swallowed, took a deep breath and continued, "She went to motels and had sex with six different men over the course of about nine months. It wasn't until she learned, from George, that she'd been videotaped each time and that each time she succumbed he got paid $1,000 that she stopped."

"A THOUSAND DOLLARS? THAT LITTLE . . ."

"Cindy, no! She never knew until the sixth time about the videotape or the money. Remember she didn't get the grand, he did. He never knew who sent it or where the envelopes came from. All he knew was that this bunch of jerks had a list of 300 women that they could choose from and the one who fucked the greatest number of them won a contest. Mary got onto their list through no fault of hers and there was no way George could get her off. Paying George the thou' wasn't prostitution, it was more of like rent on her body. When he finally told her what he knew and how he knew it, when he showed her the tapes and the bank account, she was devastated. She quit her job and hid in the house until the end of the year when the contest was over. Then they took the money and went on a long second honeymoon for the express purpose of getting her pregnant. When little George was born Mary insisted on having DNA tests done to prove that George was the father. She even did the same thing three years later with Marissa. George didn't need the tests, Mary did. The woman is so traumatized that she doesn't trust her own faithfulness, even though George does and tells her so several times a day."

By now my voice was shaking with grief and dread. Somehow, I hadn't ever truly grasped the shock of what the Hanson's had gone through until I tried to explain the whole thing to my wife, and she even knew part of it already.

"They paid him for her body. They paid him forher body! Mario, that isn't whoring or slut-wifery, that'sslavery! Poor little Mary! No wonder she seems afraid to leave George's side." Cindy's face had gone white and her words were coming out in hisses. Then she froze. "There's a reason why you're telling me this, now, isn't there?"

"Yeah, Cindy, there is. You know that phone call late Monday night? There's a new contest with a new list . . . and you're on it." The room was very quiet now. "George's mistake was in forgetting to tell Mary that it wasn't just about little flings, it was about dominance. Maybe he didn't realize it himself but in a sense it was like a big, hairy biker dude grabbing a guy's wife and telling him that she was going to be raped until she liked it so much she'd never go back to him. Telling George that there was nothing he could do because it was all 'consensual' was like having a couple of more big bikers holding him down while the first one had his fun. These Omega guys aren't as crude but it's the same idea, they're taking a man's wife and having their fun with her then rubbing his nose in it with the tape and the money."

Cindy looked grim. "I'm worth a lot more than a thousand dollars! Besides, today any chick who gets fucked on film stands too high a chance of being displayed all over the porno sites on the internet. No, Mario, you're faithful little wife will spend the rest of the year being really leery of suave men with great pick-up lines. Fret not."

"I know, baby," I tried to smile reassuringly, "but this isn't just about you and me. These are really bad people. They hunt endangered species, loot archeological sites for the artwork, decide who among 'the general population' they can fuck with impunity and God alone knows what else all. They seem to have lots of money and think that it puts them above the law, above 'the general population', above us. Somehow they've got to be stopped." I took another deep breath. "Cynthia, tomorrow we have to take the day off from work because at nine o'clock in the morning we're meeting with Angus McAllister . . ."

"Of Smyth-Jefferson/McAllister? Good God!" Cindy's eyes got big and a slightly mad smile crossed her face. "Jeez, 'Sergeant' Vacchi, when most fire-teams call for air support they want A-10's. You bring in the B-52's. O.K., I'll call Chuck in the morning."

The rest of the night was uncomfortable. We tried to watch television but everything seemed even stupider that usual. Then I tried to read a book while Cindy knitted but she kept dropping stitches and I kept reading the same page three times without ever knowing what it said. Finally I stepped outside and found that it wasn't too terribly cold so I put on my tights and my old running shoes and went for a jog, something I hadn't done much of since I left Active Duty. Three miles made me feel better so I did another one and came home in time to shower (with shave) and head for bed.

Stepping out of the stall to towel off my hairy Italian body, I saw a note on the mirror. "Go sit on the sofa." That was different. My forthright little Cindy wasn't given to communication by note. If she had something to say, she said it. Puzzled, I ran the towel over my balding head (we go bald early in the Vacchi's) and went out into the living room.

All the lights were off but there were candles spaced around the edges of the room. The coffee table was pushed aside leaving a big space in the center. "Cindy?"

"Just go sit down, Mario," her quiet voice was a command from the dark kitchen and when I complied I saw her hand with a remote control turn on the stereo and then disappear. A deep, slow throbbing drum solo started and my usually demure little Cynthia pushed off the doorway and began to dance her way into the room. She was completely naked. As the music boomed she began swing and writhe in time to it and to run her hands over her body in the most lewd manner you can imagine. She squeezed her ample breasts, spread her broad buttocks, stroked her curved belly and all the while swayed left and right, back and forward. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before. Bit by bit she came closer, the expression on her face an eerie blend of greed, lust and anger. Running her hands through her dark hair, she spread it out into a halo that had nothing to do with the shrine on our bedroom wall. Sweat appeared on her body, making it shine and when she was nearly within reach, Cindy ran her hands, fingers outstretched, down her belly. When she reached her mound she pulled her pussy open wide. She dropped to her knees and still holding herself open lay back onto the rug, her feet under her ass.

Cindy lifted her head, pussy splayed and growled. "Come, my warrior, take what's yours. Use your woman so everyone will know whose she is. Remember what you're defending when the battle starts. Take me now!"

When she'd started her dance my eyes popped out of my head. By the time she was lying on her back my dick was so hard it hurt and my brain must have applied for paid leave because it certainly wasn't in the same room with the rest of me. I slithered off the sofa, crawled up between her knees and dropped onto her, pinning her arms to her torso. With a snarl I slammed myself into her and heard her scream. "Yes, Mario, breed me! Plant me! Make my belly swell. I'm quitting the pill. By the time that fucking contest begins I'll be growing your child and no one, no one can doubt whose woman I am! Fuck me, Mario, FUCK ME!" With her hands and arms pinned down the only way she could hold onto me was by squeezing her pussy and biting my neck. She did. I don't know what time it was when we finally went to sleep.

The next morning we spent an hour trying to remember and write down everything we had heard from the Hanson's and a complete account of 'Smith's' comments off my recorder. I thought of calling George but was afraid that Mary's fragile emotions wouldn't be able to handle the thought that her betrayers were back in the area. I wondered about that. The span of ages they target in their women is long enough for one to be on their damned list more than once. Somehow I doubted that even the big, bad Omega Sportsman's Club was brave enough to try that kind of stunt. Still, it just seemed safer to leave George and his wife out of it, at least for a while.

When we arrived at Smyth-Jefferson/McAllister we were immediately ushered into the elevator and up to the top floor where the partners kept their offices. Most attorneys seem to need to line their offices with books but with the entire local, state and federal code on line, it no longer makes sense. I guess Angus McAllister agreed because his office was window walls on two sides and the rest was covered with pictures of a small, blond dancer and four stalwart sons. This, I presumed, was his family. For some strange reason, there were also pictures of his partner, a stunning woman who might be Ms. Smyth-Jefferson, her probable sons with their wives and one gorgeous young woman who could only be the daughter. What those pictures were doing in McAllister's office beat Hell out of me. Anyway, it didn't matter because no sooner were we seated at his desk and offered cups of coffee when Charles Smyth-Jefferson, himself, stepped in escorting a tall, sturdy and very business-like woman in a severe suit.

In a voice like a dark brown organ pipe Smyth-Jefferson introduced everyone. "Ms. Kruczynski, you know my partner and these two young people are Mario and Cynthia Vacchi. Mr. and Mrs. Vacchi, Susan Kruczynski of the US Attorney's office."

U.S. Attorney's Office . . . what had we gotten into? She smiled warmly. "Mr. and Mrs. Vacchi, I really must express my appreciation for whatever assistance you can give us. If there is any way we can get just the slightest wedge into the machinations of the Omega, you will be doing this country and just maybe the entire world a huge favor. These are really bad people but they have somehow managed to be even more secretive than the Mafia. We've been trying to follow up leads on them for a decade but every time it turned out to be a dead end. We are really hoping that this time will be the charm."

Cindy took the lead. She's a marketing executive and much more comfortable in groups of strangers than I am so it was only natural that she should speak first. "I'm afraid that we may have gotten you hopes up prematurely. All we have is what our friends told us about their experience four years ago and the photos that Mario took. Show them, honey."

I took out my cell phone and turned to the pictures of "Robert Smith", his car and the license plate on it. The response was electric.

"Son of a Bitch!" McAllister's broad, burly face went an ugly shade of red. Smyth-Jefferson' eyes turned to slits and the U.S. Attorney whispered "Who would have ever thought . . ."

"You've done far better than you can imagine;" rumbled Smyth-Jefferson, "we know that man, only too well. For starters his name isn't Robert Smith, it's Andrew Lee. He's a scapegrace descendent of the Virginia Lees, works as a particularly slimy lobbyist and is the kind of attorney that makes lawyer jokes too true to be funny. He's on his third trophy wife and cheats on her with every court reporter, clerk and paralegal in skirts that he can get his lecherous hands on. If he's the mouthpiece for Omega, we're in luck, because to be blunt, he's none too bright."

"Exactly, Charles," replied Ms. Kruczynski, "and I second your estimate. I'll get a federal warrant to tap his phone lines and, if possible, have one of those cyber-geniuses in the FBI take a look into his computer. Yes, young people, you have done far better than you can imagine. I must be going, now, to get this started. Angus will have your personal notes copied and sent over to my office and we will, naturally, have tosubpoena your camera."

"Here," I grinned, "take it. All of a sudden I'm getting the feeling that just maybe Mr. Lee was bluffing when he said there was nothing I could do because it was all 'consensual'. Now, Mr. McAllister, assuming we do find out who these vermin really are, how do we sue them for alienation of affection?"

"Ya don't," McAllister's voice was dry and the expression on his face, wry. "Alienation o' affection laws have nae been on the books for yearrrs. In any event, they were never designed t' protect the sanctity of marrriage. Ratherrr, they protected a fatherrr's labor force, t' wit, his unpaid daughterrrs. What yer lookin' for is protection for yer dear wife against bein' tricked inta adultery. Modern legal thinkin' goes along the followin' lines. When the extra-marital sexual relations are consented to by both partners in the relationship, however immoral y' may believe it ta be, it is their ane business. Such goin's on drift inta the realm of polyamory or polygamy. Neither is recognized, legally, yet, but the freedom of religion required in the First Amendment may cover such things, eventually, because of the better behaved sort of polygamists livin' in northern Arizona. Pairsonally, Charles and I are awaitin' those developments with interest.

On the other hand, when one member of a marriage enters into an adulterous relationship wi'out the consent of the other spouse, current thought considers it fraud! A pairson enters into marriage based on an explicit understanding of monogamy; this means that the deceived spouse is lied to and betrayed. Such an affair is no merely immoral; it is an act of fraud and a brrreach o' contract. The defrauded spouse acts in the belief that the marriage contract is being honorrred. He or she makes life-defining decisions and incurs obligations based on the contract: havin' children, buyin' a home, takin' a particular job, sharin' income, makin' mutual investments. The adulterous spouse reaps the benefits of the marriage contract while violatin' its tairms. It therefore follows that anyone or group of pairsons attemptin' to coerce or seduce another into such a fraud is enterin' into a conspiracy. And when such a conspiracy crosses state lines, it comes under the provisions of the RICO Act. That is why our friend in the US Attorney's office is so interested. All we need now is proof of who the Omegans are and that they have done what we all know they do. Ye're off to a guid start, young people, in yer defense against this evil called the Omega Sportsman's Club. Here, take this phone number and get back to us every week, at minimum, and immediately if they contact ya. Should ya require any further assistance or advice, also call immediately. And dinnae fash yersel's aboot the cost. It galls my guid Scots soul t' be sayin' this but Smyth-Jefferson/McAllister is takin' this casepro bono publico. My parrrtner insists. Once y' made the parallel of payin' the husband for the unsuspectin' use of his wife's body w' slavery, Charles took it verra poorly. No surprise, considerin' his ethnicity. In any case, we are in yer corner, noo, and anyway we can possibly help, ya ha' only t' call."

The drive home was euphoric. We chattered away like a couple of kids on their first date and when we reached the house made a ceremony of dumping Cindy's birth control pills down the toilet. We didn't make love, though, as I have read that it takes 48 hours for the male sperm count to return to fertile levels but still, sex every other day for a month or so seemed like a really, really good idea.

The New Year came and with it the beginning of the Round Up. All the sex we had in December and early January was rewarded around the 15th when Cindy's period didn't come and her OB/GYN congratulated us on our up-coming parenthood. After the obligatory phone calls to both our sets of parents the next announcement was to Smyth-Jefferson/McAllister. I know that sounds odd, but our weekly phone contacts were so reassuring that we actually began to feel very close to both partners. At the news, they held a little party for us at their offices.

It was remarkable how two men who could only be described as formidable when at work could turn out to be so warm and charming while "off duty". The party was small, intimate even, with just us, both of the partners, their wives and their two youngest children. Within five minutes after our arrival we were friends for life with Charles and Victoria, Angus (Mac) and Sonya, and their newly engaged offspring, Justin and Deserea. Sonya, it turned out, owned an operated the largest and best-regarded dance studio around. She was tiny and birdlike, chirped with a Hungarian accent when she spoke and somehow had managed to be the mother of four strapping sons while still keeping a first-rate figure. Victoria called herself a therapist, though of what she never said. All I can tell you is whatever it is that she cures, an intelligent man will immediately go out and attempt to catch so as to put himself in her utterly gorgeous, sexy, caramel-colored hands. The youngsters were a startling pair, the pale, red-headed Justin and his milk chocolate fiancee. They were still students and madly in love. Smyth-Jefferson/McAllister may have started out as a partnership but by now it was a big family. I felt right at home. Not since my sainted grandmother's last Christmas Eve dinner had I felt so cherished by so many people. Funny, isn't it, how many different kinds of people are really Italian underneath?

As with most parties, the women went off to talk about babies, pregnancy, child-rearing . . . and probably about husbands. Even though both our sets of parents were half a continent away, it was obvious that Cynthia was going to have all the support, sisterhood and mothering that she could possibly need during the coming nine months and afterwards. The men, on the other hand, were left with the champagne bottles to talk about golf, the local economy and, inevitably, politics. What we expressly didn't talk about was the Omega Sportsman's Club.

January ended and February began, as it always does. We went about our ordinary lives and had begun to hope that the Fed would deal with the bad guys and that we wouldn't have to do anything else. After all, isn't that what they're for?

Not everything was the same, besides the coming baby, though. That late night jog I had taken felt so good that I kept it up and by the time Valentine's Day was on the horizon I was up to nightly 5K's and had lost the 20 lbs I'd gained since becoming a civilian. Cindy loved it. What she wasn't so sure about was the time I was spending at the local pistol range instead of the golf course. The Bulldog .44 had been traded in for a full-race combat .45 auto with laser sights and a magazine full of Silvertips. It felt good in the hand and the cluster of holes in the silhouette target was getting smaller and smaller. That felt good, too. It wasn't that I actually expected to shoot anyone but a change was coming over me that I found a little unnerving but wasn't going to complain about. 'Warrior', Cindy'd called me. Yesss!

It was February 12th that I got home before Cindy and went for my nightly run. Once I was cooled off, I jumped into the shower for my nightly ablutions. After drying myself I started to put on my pj's for dinner when Cynthia stepped up to me and grabbed two fistfuls of chest hair. "Warrior," she whispered, "it begins."

"What?" I froze. "Tell me more!"

"Two things first," she murmured, "dinner . . . and this."

Whatever things you might choose to call my wife, 'subservient' wouldn't be among them. Tonight, though, for the first time in our ten-year marriage, she dropped to her knees and pulled my pajama bottoms off. Cynthia took my soft cock in her hot, wet mouth and my balls in her soft little hands and began to suck, lick and fondle me. She reached behind my scrotum to tickle my perineum, squeezing and stroking. I moaned. As I stiffened up, she stopped, grabbed my hands and stuck then into her hair. "Hold me down!" she ordered then went back to her work, her warm lips, tongue and cheeks worshipping my manhood and increasing my arousal to nearly intolerable heights. It was when she reached back and stuck her little finger into my anus that I exploded into her mouth. She'd never done that, before, either. What really surprised me was that she swallowed my cum. Much as I might despise the Omega Sportsman's Club, our duel with them was having some really great side effects. We ate dinner in bathrobes.